


Run to me

by hazk



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Injury, Season/Series 15, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24293083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazk/pseuds/hazk
Summary: By circumstance, Mark Temple could not run. One stupid mistake is all it took.
Relationships: Dexter Grif & Mark Temple
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Run to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RiaTheDreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/gifts).



"Run, run, run, _run—"_

Limping and groaning he kept pushing forward, even when it felt like he barely managed to sway in place. Pain for no gain, and he was no closer to where he needed to be.

He sped up, ran for a couple of steps until the agony radiating from his arm began to blind him. He grit his teeth together hard enough to be sure they would shatter, then forced them apart to say:

"Can't run, can't fucking run…"

He doubted he was going to make it. He didn't even have the meth mushrooms to force some pep in his step, mentally cursing himself for having left his stash aboard Locus’ ship when the ex-merc had first recruited him for the mission. 

Without the mushrooms, there was nothing but his physical strength, willpower and adrenaline to help him keep going – and fuck if those three had ever been worth much. _He wasn't worth much_ , and neither were his obviously lacking self preservation instincts.

Although, he had survived a lot of shit already, hadn't he? He had survived worse than this one run down a corridor from hell, surrounded by the battle cries of an already fighting crowd.

He shouldn't deny it. He had survived hell thrice over with his own life on the line, and this time around there were others for him to worry about instead of simply waiting things through.

He had been recruited. He had been trusted with an actual mission to fulfill. 

It wasn't his life that mattered: He had to keep running even if it killed him. Not that he could run. He had barely moved twenty feet by now. 

"Fucking failure, _I'm a fucking useless—_ "

Not yet, no time to give in yet. There was something he could do still. A tool with a use was a tool worth keeping around, yes, and he still had a use. He still had a use. 

Problem was, he had already once failed to fulfill said use. Behind his back and at the other end of the hall, in a pool of his own blood lay cursing a man in blue armor.

By choice (arguably so), Dexter Grif had never murdered anyone. Never point blank.

Not for the lack of trying however, and especially not this once. Fuck his luck, fuck his life, and fuck the pistol the Blue Freak had managed to steal from his hands.

* * *

By circumstance (arguably so), Mark Temple had killed a lot of people. Never point blank.

Grif didn't know about it, but their encounter had started as something of a challenge to them both. Oh, well. Having been shot in the knee had really worked wonders to flare up Temple's thirst for blood since then.

Temple hissed and cradled his profusely bleeding leg, cursing Grif six feet under for having managed to hit him. And then his vision went blurry for reasons other than the pain or the murderous adrenaline he was drenched in – the sight of his own blood just a little too much for his already struggling brain to handle.

It was his blood, his own blood, it belonged to Temple, inside of him, and this _WANNABE ORANGE ASSHOLE HAD JUST DARED TO SHOOT HIM IN THE FUCKING KNEE???!!!_

Biff be damned: Getting shot at any part of your body just wasn't worth the trouble. Although this specific injury having not been an instakill was undeniably a lucky break for him.

Grif would have and could have shot him dead, oh yes! It was pretty much a miracle how Temple’s reflexes had allowed him to direct the worst of the hit at his knee. And yes, _of course Temple had been trying to put a bullet between the Orange Freak’s eyes as well_ , but at least _he_ had had all the right to do so.

And he still did.

The pistol was still within Temple’s reach; his own as well as the one he had taken from Grif. With shaking hands, he let go of his leg and let it bleed.

Eyes watering at the stench of blood, Temple picked up Grif’s pistol. With difficulty he fired the weapon at the orange blur that had once owned it, his mark hobbling away from him insultingly slow.

Miss, miss, miss, _miss—_

Four missed shots using Grif’s gun, plus the one bullet that had already gotten Temple in the knee. Only one more left in the barrel.

Lying on the floor, Temple tried to steady his shaking hands. He would have to make the last bullet count.

Good thing was that when the first four shots had showered Grif, he had crouched down and thrown his arm over his head as if that would provide cover from the assault – which it didn’t, meaning Temple’s chances were all the better for Grif having stopped his escape. Temple tried not to laugh at him, which would have only further shook the barrel of the gun, when Grif’s panicked gasps and curses echoed back at him. 

The orange visor turned, as if willing himself to watch Temple pull the trigger. Grif's helmet was no doubt covering one hell of an expression of fear as the pistol remained pointed at him.

“Can’t miss… Can’t fucking miss…”

But then Temple's own mumbled words made him frown, and he didn’t end up pulling the trigger. Instead, he let his hand drop and let go of the pistol, watching it clatter down the few steps that separated him and Grif.

Grif's visor followed the pistol, then snapped back at him. Temple cleared his throat.

“Where are you going?” Temple called out, his voice dripping with pain and mockery. “Wrong way, poster boy…”

If only because he had already been struggling to move, Grif appeared to settle in his "cover" against the wall. He cradled his arm and waited, perhaps, for Temple to give him purpose.

They could hear the sound of heavy footsteps passing them by, half-expecting someone to step in through one of the doors around them. The other sim troopers were at war right outside.

“The Reds and Blues, right? The cells are the other way, along with my team”, Temple said as cheerfully as he could manage, which was very cheerful indeed. Lying in an ever-growing pool of his own blood he gestured towards the doorway to his left, which was the same one he had first walked through to surprise Grif.

He had come for Grif, on his own, for a reason that no longer mattered. Somewhere behind the door, Surge and Buckey must have shot the imprisoned sim troopers’ brains out by now.

"I doubt your friends will be happy to see you…" Temple mumbled in his growing daze. His head fell back and hit the floor with a heavy thud. He let out a guttural laugh, relishing in the mental image of the Reds and Blues’ bloody deaths. That was one picture painted in red that did not make him feel sick in the least.

And Grif’s expression must have been quite a sight as well, it truly a shame that the helmet was covering it all up. Such a shame.

Near delusional now, he rolled fully on to his back.

"You’re a fucking failure, _a fucking useless piece of shit_ …" Temple kept repeating the words, over and over, and giggled in between. He didn’t really care to figure out just who he was talking about. 

His leg was made of nothing but agony that had grown near deafening by now, the blood continuing to rush on out of him. His ears were ringing, he could barely hear his own laughter – never mind his thoughts.

A stupid mistake on his part; to surprise Grif during his “rescue mission” only to fail to properly pull the trigger on him. A mere second of hesitation and Temple's knee had been the one busted to hell.

Even now, Dexter Grif in his orange armor remained a shadow in the corner of Temple's eye. A colorful shadow – do those exist? – that had not continued its struggling escape away from him.

Was it hesitation or was it anger; is one of those why Grif was suddenly approaching him? Through the tears, Temple watched the orange color grow larger and brighter while he just kept on laughing at the misfortune that was his revenge.

Fuck his luck, fuck his life, and fuck these orange troopers who kept on getting in his way. Temple knew it better than anyone:

One stupid mistake is all it takes, and one missed shot more than enough to ruin everything for a guy.

_And wasn't that just fucking fantastic—?_

A stupid, failed shot aimed at a blurred out target. A familiar color, sharp, stuck in the corner of his eye.

A halo oh-so red and blinding.

"Shit."

Temple shook his head, violently trying and failing to drown out his hiccuping panic as the helmet clacked against the floor tiles of his lair. His unfocused eyes could barely see the orange blur right down the steps, some feet away, no longer at the other end of the short-as-hell corridor connecting two spaces where a much larger battle must have been raging on.

Temple could hear death knocking. All because of that damn bullet in the knee.

How does that even happen? And, if that bullet is what manages to kill him, would it count as a poetic death?

Temple scoffed. He brushed the thoughts away for now, suddenly mad at himself for having almost let his mind wander. Almost but not quite, what with the Red and the red he still had to keep an eye on.

Grif stood by him and hesitated, but he didn’t seem to have time to overthink it either. He leaned down for the pistol right out of the Blue’s reach. 

Not yet, it was not the time to give in yet. There was something Temple could do still. He still had a chance.

Thinking about it, he slipped right back to laughter, kept on laughing then laughed some more – the freakish form of hysteria hitting him hard and seeming to finally snap Grif out of his stupor. The orange blur reached for the pistol in something more akin to a run than whatever his previous hobbling had been. 

There was one bullet left in the clip for Grif to use; a bullet with Temple’s name on it, no doubt.

Had Grif even counted the shots? Did he even know there was that one bullet left for him to use, or was the sight of the pistol, glistening with Temple’s blood, just too good for him to pass by?

The laughter kept going but there was no sound. Temple’s lungs had long since been emptied of air, his expression a hungry snarl hidden by his blue visor. 

Unable to react as quickly as he had originally planned to, it felt like Grif’s hand had reached the pistol in the blink of an eye. Temple turned his head to get a better look, his vision sharpening to see nothing else but this man.

Was Grif really so eager to put that last remaining bullet through Temple’s skull that he didn’t even consider it not existing? Did they both wish for nothing more than to see each other dead?

The pistol was in his hand now, Grif’s fingers curling around it. He had gotten to it so damn fast.

Just where had that speed come from? Was Grif really that angry at him? Did he really care so much?

“Grif?”

Temple’s eyes widened and so must have Grif’s, the orange blur spinning his head around to look at the other end of the corridor. Maroon armor stood there, the man’s stance wide and no doubt in shock at what he was seeing – they were surrounded by so much blood, the sight of it unbearable.

Temple immediately snarled at the interruption. Grif’s hand dropped.

“Simmons…?”

“Gene.”

It had happened so fast.

At hearing Temple whisper a name he didn't know, Grif’s visor had snapped back at him. The orange color had gleamed equally bright to the sea of blood they had been surrounded by and they had looked at each other, visor to visor, but Temple could only see red. He had grit his teeth at the sight.

Behind his back, Temple’s left hand had been clinging onto his own pistol. In front of him, Grif’s profusely bleeding right arm had hung uselessly by his side as he lifted up the pistol held in the other. 

There had been so much blood, and only more by the second. Temple’s smile had been painfully wide yet confused.

He had had very little time, but the rampant thoughts hadn’t stopped—

Was this what he deserved? They? All? Pitiful death by misfire times two?

Temple’s finger had already been on the trigger when he had finally, limply, swung his weapon at Grif, much later than he had first planned to; Grif had never been meant to reach the other gun. Looking down the barrel, Temple had known it was going to be a bad shot, but it's not like he needed it to be _perfect._

When they had still stood face to face, even with Temple's hesitation, Grif wasn't the only one who had gotten a hit in.

Ever since he had stolen the pistol from Grif, Temple had tried not to think about the blood pouring out of the man's arm that he had managed to shoot through. But when he had pointed his own pistol at Grif, for the final time, he had seen it and known that the other was already close to bleeding out.

On his end, Grif had been thinking the very same about him and his busted knee. And then they had both fired.

“ _NO!!_ ”

Two shots had echoed as one, and there had been no misses. Only one visor had been splashed with blood.

“Oh, shit.” 

Although only one of them had died in an instant, it didn’t mean the other was any less likely to bleed out from the hits he had also taken. Red, blue and orange; they laid there side by side as the maroon rushed closer to the bloodbath.

“Stupid”, the one left breathing whispered with a drained breath. “Fucking… _stupid_ …”

The maroon soldier pointed a rifle at him. There would be no hesitation this time, the man's furious, heartbroken scream a color in its own right.

It hadn’t been worth it, was the last thought to register before the rifle was fired point blank at his face.

Fuck his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Ria!!! You’re the loveliest piece of bread I have ever met and I miss you so, so much <3


End file.
